Recently, I have read the coming-of-age novel Hard Land by Benedict Wells. The book was quite predictable, but it moved me all the same. It reminded me of my own childhood, of how I used to be. Of course you have to be careful not to romanticize the past, but sometimes I wish I could feel as careless and hopeful as I was then. In hindsight, I think I might never live as freely as I did then. Paradoxically, when I began to live on my own and enjoyed more freedom than I ever had, I also lost something. I was more free than I had ever been, but it did not feel that way. The older I got, the more I was oppressed by fears, anxieties, and the weight of expectations. More and more I felt like horizon of my future endeavors was narrowing by the day. It is this sentiment that the poet Thomas Hood (1799-1845) so strikingly expressed in his poem I Remember, I Remember.
In the poem, Thomas Hood looks back on his childhood, reminiscing the things that made up his world back then: the house he grew up in, the familiar and comforting sounds and sights that used to surround him. Everything was just as is supposed to be. But at the end of the stanza, he contrasts these warm memories with his current outlook on life, which is somber and devoid of hope. For, he says, he now wished he had long since died, so that he would not have had to go through all this suffering. Then he remembers the bright colours of the flowers that used to surround him, and fir-tree planted by his brother. Like the memory of his childhood, the tree still stands firm.
Continuing, he reminisces where he used to swing and how he used to be full of wonder, imagining what the rush of air must feel like to a swallow in flight. While then everything felt feathery light, he now bears everything with a heavy heart. He has lost his childlike sense of wonder, and instead has been trodden down by life’s hardships. If only he could regain that sense of lightness, hope, and wonder that he experienced as a boy. If only.
I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!I remember, I remember,
The roses, red and white,
The vi’lets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday,—
The tree is living yet!I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!I remember, I remember,
The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now ’tis little joy
To know I’m farther off from heav’n
Than when I was a boy.
